Glory
by DSieya
Summary: “From what I found out after he died, he got in so far, then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out.” — Sirius Black [oneshot, written before dh]


_Glory_, his parents had said.

He left school and joined up right away, got the skull tatooed into his arm, wore a mask, and felt special and important. He was home like he had never been at Hogwarts; he was respected as a good follower. He always got the job done as neatly as possible. He was intelligent but didn't question, was young but not brash. He expected to rise up in rank fairly quickly, and His Lord always expressed pleasure with his actions; _I expect it from your family_, he would say.

He killed and blackmailed and did everything he was instructed to do and felt proud of his work. He got information through a combination of threat, control, and a good dose of Veritaserum. He would come home and his mother would have the house-elves cook his favorite dinner and express her pleasure and pride of having at least one great son.

It was a long time before he tortured anyone, and it disturbed him enough for the Dark Lord to remark upon it. He was not Bella; the screams of agony and the screwed up face and the violently spasming muscles brought him no pleasure.

But he had enough power that every time a case called for torture he would look down from cold, red eyes, kneel, and say _I will do your bidding, master._

From that day onward, he felt despise in his heart; he despised the Dark Lord for evil in the name of pure blood; he despised himself, for being cowardly and weak to not even being able to think his Master's name let alone resist his sworn duty; he despised his parents, for telling him to do this; he despised his brother, for leaving. His heart swelled with so much despise that he could hardly bear it; he was disgusting, he was stupid, simple-minded; everything his brother had told him he was, back when he was naïve. (At least he was no longer that anymore.)

One day, too long later, he decided that it was enough. He didn't like it anymore. He felt uncomfortable, dirty, evil, weak. This was not glory, not in his eyes. Lucius screaming at him to _do it!_, Bella laughing cruelly, the little girl - the poor little girl, not yet nine, trembling violently with her teeth chattering and her face pale as his and dry sobs racking from her throat. _I'm sorry_, she pleaded, _I'm sorry for it, please don't hurt me, sir, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry - _

He had held up a hand, and her voice had cracked in horror as she fell backwards. He, then, had thought of his mother, who knew what he was doing and believed him hero; his father, smiling coldly from across the table and talking of the taint disappearing -- he had thought, in that moment, of the Dark Lord who ordered all these things; his family, dumb and cruel and Dark enough to follow him. He paused too long, thought of his brother, who had seen the nonsense in it from the beginning and would not listen and eventually left.

He had always known that his brother was the smart one.

It was then, he remembered, it was that moment where he was most decisive; he told the girl to not apologize for her birthright, Bella let out a shriek of laughter, and he calmly blasted his two companions through the walls (no, he couldn't kill them, he had neither the courage nor the strength) and stepped over the dead bodies of two parents and he was glad that the little bit had enough sense to run because he didn't need to waste time.

(A year in hiding and disguise passed when he had found himself in front of a seaside cave, the fresh scent of salt filling his nose and mouth and the spray of the ocean on his cold, pale face.)

And now he sits here, sprawled, a burning in his throat and a weakness to his limbs; with shaking hands, he pulls out a long gold chain with an oval pendant attached, and finishes off his note written in scrawling ink.

_...when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. R. A. B._

Somehow, he tucks the tiny note into the locket and drops it into the basin, stumbles into the boat and scrambles along the edge toward the door, where he reopens the cut on his hand and crawls, spasming and vomiting. Somehow, he manags to Apparate out of that hell and onto the edge of the cliff.

His throat is parched; any gasping breathe, any slight moan causes it to hurt. It felt as if every string of muscle is covered in sand and the smallest movement causes them to rub against one another.

He clutches a heavy locket in a piece of his robes. It is over a thousand years old; he feels as if its age is diffusing into him, making him older, feebler. --And with one sweeping motion that aludes to his former grace that runs in his bloodline, the man draws his wand and uses the last of his strength to let out a curse.

There is a clank as if something very heavy had been dropped; something screams; pain and burns run up his arm, through his shoulder and to his neck; there is a sudden howling of winds, although it may be him, his screams are so loud...

The destroyed locket is claimed by the sea, and he dies, feeling redeemed, not knowing there are more, not knowing that that very night the Dark Lord (he can't think his name) is going to commit two fateful murders.

_Glory_, he thinks.


End file.
